The Wrong Detective

By Guy Fee

You’re never dead until we say you are. Having built a safe but uninspiring new life in Europe, the past comes knocking for Ken and Maggie in the form of an old friend from Glasgow, who reaches out for help after her daughter goes missing. The dangerous duo must return to the lion’s den, risking their freedom to re-enter a world
that could end them, if they don’t watch their step. Ken locks horns with the new gang lord on the block while Maggie must awaken a sleeping giant as, once again, she embraces the part of her she’d buried for the sake of the relationship. It’s the only way to get the job done. But will they succeed in their quest to find the girl or be killed for their trouble? Find out in the new, action-packed second book of THE TRAVELLER SERIES from Glasgow author Guy Fee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little Bushman Publishing
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385515615

Book preview

LITTLE BUSHMAN PUBLISHING

First published 2023.

First Edition.

Copyright © Guy Fee, 2023

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

www.guyfee.com

LITTLE BUSHMAN PUBLISHING

CHAPTERS

Chapter One: El Cóndor Pasa

Chapter Two: I Belong To Glasgow

Chapter Three: I Would Die 4 U

Chapter Four: Bad Habits

Chapter Five: I Will Follow You Into The Dark

Chapter Six: Someone Like You

Chapter Seven: The Werewolves Of London

Chapter Eight: China Girl

Chapter Nine: Never Gonna Give You Up

Chapter Ten: Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter Eleven: Born To Be Wild

Chapter Twelve: Wind Beneath My Wings

Chapter Thirteen: The Sound Of Music

Chapter Fourteen: Murder On The Dancefloor

Chapter Fifteen: We Didn’t Start The Fire

Chapter Sixteen: Eye Of The Tiger

Chapter Seventeen: Dark Side Of The Moon

Chapter Eighteen: Digging Your Scene

Chapter Nineteen: Bruises

Chapter Twenty: The Banks Of Green Willow

Chapter Twenty One: Let The Grass Grow

Chapter Twenty Two: Look What You Made Me Do

Chapter Twenty Three: Blinding Lights

Chapter Twenty Four: The Lark Ascending

Chapter Twenty Five: All The Good Girls Go To Hell

Chapter Twenty Six: All Along the Watchtower

Chapter Twenty Seven: Norwegian Wood

Chapter Twenty Eight: Swan Lake

Chapter Twenty Nine: Fire And Rain

Chapter Thirty: Hold My Hand

Chapter Thirty One: We Belong Together

Chapter Thirty Two: Lose Yourself

Chapter Thirty Three: You Sent Me Flying

For those who are in pain and love.

ONE: El Cóndor Pasa

The Eastern Cordillera of southern Peru was not somewhere Ken Mack ever expected to find himself. Let alone alongside a frustratingly congenial female companion who had, for all intents and purposes, retired the band.

A band that had played sell-out gigs, packed stadium events where fever-pitch tunes of murder and killing for hire were belted out, without too much thought but plenty of consequence. The way the best bands do. Writing a song in five minutes that lives forever. Maggie was a rock god when it came to dispatching the baddest and toughest in the trade.

But all that was behind her, them, as the freshly formed lovers trekked in the heat. Maggie was excited. Today she would realise her dream and feast eyes on the rare wonder that was Machu Picchu. It had been a long time coming and she couldn’t think of a better creature to share this moment with than Chase. And Ken as well. Obviously.

Maggie wasn’t told she was going to be killed on her 23rd birthday but she knew her life expectancy as a contract killer wasn’t as high as the average woman her age. Like a deep sea diver, she had chosen to put herself in harm’s way for additional income.

There was a price that came with it, similar to the balance senior leadership teams attempted to strike between achieving goals and family time. There would always be another board meeting as there would another family dinner. With some, there was no conflict, no consternation, no soul-searching. It was simple. The work was the thing.

There was a part of Maggie, the Aloysius percentage, that had been tucked away. Packed in a suitcase flung in an attic at the back of a bunch of rather large boxes. It was for the best. She would start a new life with Ken as an ordinary, law-abiding citizen. She would buy sourdough bread and smile at her neighbour, walk in parks and read a newspaper like normal people do. She could become something else, as Ken could.

And this was part of it. Their first family trip to Machu Picchu. A journey that had taken many thousands of steps. And now, the three of them were within spitting distance. An hour or so from sealing the tomb on a past life.

‘Did you know the Incas used music to talk to their ancestors?’

Ken was proud of his recently acquired knowledge. It made him feel like he was expedition leader when, in fact, it was clear to anyone watching or listening that he was pack donkey. Chase had more chance of promotion than the Mack.

‘I did not know that.’

Maggie was being generous as she knew that keeping Ken happy and balanced made the journey more pleasant for all of them.

‘Yeah. Also, they used music as a way to heal the sick and when they put people in the ground who were dead,’ Ken added.

‘When it didn’t work out with the healing part? You’re a font of Inca knowledge.’

‘An Inca fountain, you might say.’

Maggie was used to his terrible puns by now and, in a way, the mundanity of them was refreshing. Endearing. It showed he was trying, like her, to forget the past and focus on a fun-packed future. It was difficult when you had half the world’s police forces after you. Everything had to be kept airtight and reserved. It had to be delicately handled on every front. Such was the life looking over one’s shoulder. Paper trails were for chumps.

Ken had broken his rule. He had evolved, as many do, as age rolls on. His ‘better to live alone’ philosophy had disappeared. There were complications now. Work, sleep, eat, repeat was no longer his mantra. The day would start with a kiss on the lips, a genuine smile and a ‘good morning’ to his life partner. If she could take the leap of faith, so could he. Was this a plan for a lifetime? It could be done, he supposed. He was now well and truly in his thirties, after all.

The unfamiliar faces he met these days were not from his home town. Most had skin that didn’t blister in the sun after five seconds. Scotsmen were a contradiction. Capable of shouldering longboats and ignoring driving rain, yet the mere sight of sunshine filled them with dread, the awful anticipation of the thunderous burn storm of pleasant-to-most rays. Feared, hated, and resented by the Caledonian contingent.

Housing estate underpasses were welcome relief from the glare of this laughing orange ball. Alleyways, grotty pubs and the back of snooker halls, too. They offered maximum protection in a land fraught with frying danger.

Maggie and Ken were in a world of dinosaurs, one stomp from lengthy prison time but it did not stop them embracing all that life had to offer. It required discipline, sure, but Maggie’s confidence shored up Ken’s natural suspicion and paranoia. Together they would make it. They had money and each other. It was a bonus for Ken to be with someone who took personal security as seriously as he did. She knew her exits and was a good reader of people, their state of mind, and the threat they posed. He had an ally in the madness.

It was not often, living like this, that they encountered a surprise. It came in the form of a buzzing in Ken’s backpack. At first, he thought it might be a playful mosquito outwitting the high altitude to take a bite out of that soft Celtic flesh.

But the rumble continued so Ken took his rucksack off those longboat shoulders and opened the bag. Inside was a burner phone with only two numbers in it. One was Maggie’s matching handset and the other was the only person Ken trusted who was still alive. Debbie Jones. The reformed addict was remained loyal when all of Rome burned around her.

There was no call. Just words on a screen that changed the colour of the day. Ken immediately showed the phone to Maggie and no one else.

The screen read: ‘Patsy missing.’

Debbie wasn’t one for grand speeches at the best of times and, in the trade, time was of the essence but there was a universal code. When your fellow soldiers called on you, you dropped everything. Not because you knew it was a reciprocal arrangement, but because, without loyalty and reliability, prison or death waited. Patsy was Debbie’s daughter and, when it came to family, it was personal and, therefore, a matter of the heart and the utmost urgency.

Maggie didn’t have to be told by Ken that Machu Picchu would have to wait. She knew from his face that the well had run dry on this particular Inca fountain. Chase was as happy as he ever was until the moment he could feel a change in his master. Dogs are good that way. Instinct in animals is like that in the trade. It’s heightened. It knows when to get the legs moving. When danger is approaching fast.

Ken didn’t have to text his ex-work colleague back. She knew he’d be coming because, out of all of them, he was the one who could help her. She knew he would drop everything for her, not just because the code dictated. There would be no excuse or crawling into the woodwork. He would stand up for her, announcing himself as Spartacus. Because the ones you can rely on can be counted on one hand.

Ken was about to apologise to his beloved but she shut him down. She knew going back was a risk. More than a risk. It could change everything again. They had worked so hard to free themselves of the sound of footsteps behind. All had been quiet for a few months but they were heading back into the lion’s den for a friend. Because what did life matter without such a decision?

The biggest threat of all was not being caught, as far as Ken was concerned. It was the seduction, the whiff of the old life, a drop of whisky on the tongue of an alcoholic. Salivating as one of Pavlov’s dogs. As they turned back, Ken was not concerned that either would be fearful about their trip home. He wondered if Maggie could keep Aloysius quiet. Would a kindness awaken the sleeping beast?

Maggie had made real progress. She hadn’t killed anyone for quite some time. But now there was a child involved who was precious and being missing in this world normally meant someone intervening. It could be a business rival, a message from the other side of the table. We are in control now. If that was the case, Ken knew Aloysius would not be dormant for long and would have a say in how Patsy was returned to her mother’s arms.

Ken wondered if Carter was involved. Patsy’s biological father hadn’t climbed out the way Debbie had. He had continued to wallow in the drug scene like a hippo in the coolest, stickiest mud. He had taken no ownership of the relationship when Debbie had broken the news to him about her pregnancy.

Predictably, he had asked her to get rid. She had not obliged. Carter figured it didn’t matter. There was no way any child would survive the abuse Debbie was giving to her body, the lifestyle they had acquired along the way. But, somehow, this innocent angel survived. Without complication.

Patsy was perfect in every way. Her early childhood was challenging. Despite Debbie’s addictions (of which there were many), Patsy was the one constant in her life. Debbie was good for nothing but looking after her. It was the reason she remained alive.

Many who had children neglected them terribly. The poison did that. It made one only care about a singular purpose. More happiness in the veins. More relief. Freedom from the constraints of existing in a world that was dumb. Didn’t know how high a person could get. They were the outsiders.

Patsy was never offered or given drugs. Ken knew that there was a type of drug user who wanted to get out but the call of the poison was what kept them in the loop. Perhaps this was the quiet desperation that was spoken of. But it was never quiet. It was dramatic and lunging and grasping, for the most part.

When Debbie slid the Stanley blade into Ken’s leg, there was no malice in the action. It was the poison acting out, navigating its vessel through the choppy waters. But this ocean was not as it seemed. The waves were much higher, the boat lurching in an unnatural way. As hallucinogenic a journey as the acid tabs gave them on the slow nights.

But, despite this, there were a precious few who realised, in time, the error of their ways. Or had enough to lose still, even in the depths, to buck the trend and change a life. Not just one. Ken used to say that those rare, hardy souls who exited the life had found a way to remove the domino that ended the topple. Halted the destruction. Cut the loop.

This made Patsy all the more precious and perfect. Debbie had survived the storm. The boat had come out the other side. Damaged, bruised, but, for the most part, intact. Patsy was Debbie’s only child. She was the embodiment of every that was good about restoration and rehabilitation.

Patsy was her everything. And now she was Ken and Maggie’s everything too. 

TWO: I Belong To Glasgow

There was a big discussion to be had when Ken and Maggie returned to a Buckinghamshire farmhouse that was occupied by no one, except on pieces of paper. Abstract concepts were part of cloak to the dagger. The couple were masters at deception so, while Ken did not like paper trails, he didn’t mind a few documents masking lies.

The trade was about staying alive not truthfulness although, among his own, the code and the honesty therein was essential. But not with the crossing of ‘t’s and dotting of ‘i’s. This was garnish and Ken didn’t do salad as much he did steak and chips.

Their home in Abingdale was a base for precisely this occasion. When the odd bump hit the highway. While their lives were on the road now, moving regularly to avoid the chance of another visit from an obsessive cop, there was a certain peace to be had from laying down roots. They couldn’t be on the run forever.

Eventually, they would have to pick a base and where better than the sleepy little village of Abingdale, where the worst crime committed was drunks placing traffic cones on lampposts. It reminded Ken of Glasgow. The infamous tradition in the city centre of that colourful plastic cone permanently resting on the head of the Duke of Wellington statue.

There was a lightness to the city that balanced out its reputation as the murder capital of Europe. City officials wanted that claim to fame disappeared along with the drug and homelessness problem. But the truth was, it was prevalent in every land mass of a certain size. Winners and losers, good luck and bad, energy and exhaustion.

For Ken, its magic was in the people who, despite the closing of shipyards or being described in certain political circles as the tail that wagged the dog, maintained their bonhomie. The drink had a part to play, as with all Celtic nations. They loved a good story well told. If there was live music and liquid while they heard it, all the better.

Alcohol was the main drug of choice for the locals but Ken knew there was gold in other hills. But that was behind him now. The priority was to reunite a mother with her daughter. Ken knew the city well. They could hide but the cameras were the issue. They could pick up licence plates, recognise faces, who knew what else.

Ken didn’t keep up with the latest surveillance equipment outside of catching half of the odd documentary about state control somewhere dictatorial in the world but he knew people who still owed him a favour or six. He could shake that tree to keep them safe.

The boss was gone now, along with the crew, so there wouldn’t be much interference there. He wasn’t coming home for a reunion. He was there to do a job and get out. He thought about leaving Maggie behind at the farm but he was aware that wouldn’t be an option. Not with Aloysius swilling around inside.

‘Aide.’

Maggie looked up from her mug of tea sat on the patio table as she looked out across a spectacular empty field where, in the distance, a couple of sheep were playing follow the leader.

‘Pardon?’

Ken was pleased with himself. The great Aloysius couldn’t guess the answer. Oh dear, standards were slipping. Of course, he would never mention Maggie’s alter ego, lest he get a smack in the chops. She was done with that as much as he was done with the trade. No going back.

But there was an element of return to the journey. They would have to mix in that world again. Which brought Ken nicely back to ‘aide’.

‘Avoidance, investigation, discovery, extraction. A-I-D-E. It’s an acronym.’

Maggie sipped more tea, unimpressed. ‘You forgot the last one. The most important one of all.’

‘Which would be?’ Ken sat down beside her. He had coffee with baby milk in. It looked more light than dark.

‘Punishment. There have to be consequences. A warning isn’t enough. Future determent is what is needed. Otherwise, what’s to stop it happening again?’

‘I see your point,’ said Ken. He squinted at the sheep. There was something rather relaxing about livestock. They moved in a predictable and, yes, sometimes, unpredictable way. They were a law unto themselves until they were herded. Shepherded for success.

Maggie knew it was the same with people. You could lead them to any manner of water and then push their face in it until they drowned. The people who took Patsy, if that’s what it was, would be sorry. They didn’t appreciate who was connected with Debbie..

She was a reformed junkie as far as they were concerned so there would be no blowback. How could someone be so ill-advised? Wrong didn’t even come close. They would pay a hefty price. And, if the child was no longer alive, they would follow soon enough.

‘I was wondering whether it was necessary for both of us to go.’

Maggie was surprised by the question. She stroked Chase’s coat. He had taken up residence at her feet, warming the exposed toes of her sandals. It was rare for Maggie to wear such things, a product, no doubt of the time spent in the warmer South American climate.

Back in the UK, Chase’s body provided welcome heat.

‘Do you think you can handle this on your own?’

Maggie didn’t mean it as an insult but Ken had been out of the game a while. Without having to say it, Ken knew she meant that, perhaps, he had grown soft or his reactions to danger may have slowed with the different pace of life they now had.

People in love got slack and, with that kind of change, ordinarily, it would be a bonus. The new world offering a rich, leisurely pace but, to fugitives, it meant suffering. It meant getting caught or killed. Ken was still enough in the zone to realise he could use Maggie.

The truth was he was trying to protect her by not extending an invitation and she was doing the same by insisting on coming. She hadn’t had to push hard yet but it was coming. Ken knew her well enough to know at least that.

‘You’ll need someone waiting in the wings. Someone they won’t be expecting who has the necessary skills to iron out any wrinkles.’

Maggie made it sound like she was ironing his shirts for the trip but he knew what she meant. He knew who she was. What she was forever capable of. That which she could execute. Fortunately, not Ken anymore. That time had passed but the fire still burned inside. He could see her grow impatient as the weeks and months unfurled.

She loved the new life but there was a part of her that was all animal. That needed its fill. It was difficult to suppress, even with distracting Wonders of the World. She needed blood and revenge and bad people to die.

Was it possible to remove that part of her through kindness and time? This was the real question needing to be resolved because it impacted the relationship. If she couldn’t live without Aloysius, how would they survive? It was high tea with a tiger and there was only one outcome to that party.

‘I agree.’

Ken knew it was dangerous to bring her along but he didn’t know what he was up against. And if it was hardcore, he would need all of Maggie, Aloysius included. They would sleep in the farm tonight and, at dawn, they would drive 400 miles up the road to Glasgow. Six or sevens hours of rubber on road and Ken would be home. The home of the heart but home, nonetheless. 

As they ate dinner inside, a single light on in the living room, a bare table with two bowls of pasta and a bottle of wine, Ken knew this was the quiet before the storm. He wished he was not as noble as he had to be. Debbie was the one vestige of a former life. No doubt, Aloysius would have seen it as a loose end. His friend would have been dead long before now if left to the assassin. But would she have been?

Aloysius had scruples that had revealed themselves on the clifftop. Scruples and love had saved Ken that evening. And Ken supposed it was the same now with Debbie. His friend was more than that - a sister of the trade and, through association, Maggie had an unbreakable bond with her, too.

Maggie had not forgotten the risk Debbie had taken attending the funeral of Ken’s closest friend. Sticking her head above the parapet. They had money because of her. Ken got closure. Debbie deserved the return of that love beyond the keys to a Porsche.

The golden rule was to find people you can trust and keep them by your side. Treat them well and they treat you well. It was the backbone of good business, whether in the trade or out. So the possibility of danger paled into insignificance beside the requirements of the code and helping Ken’s sister solve her problem. That’s what family did. It loved, unconditionally.

Ken and Maggie had been so busy evading the authorities, maintaining the adrenaline, not through fear but with the excitement of a child playing hide and seek with friends, that they had forgotten how long it had been since they had given themselves to one another in the bedroom.

This new adventure was, regardless of the risks, punching the ticket in the kind of way robbing banks did for Bonnie and Clyde. They could feel it in the caress, the soft touches that failed to hide the rising heart rate of unpredictable danger. It was in their blood. They did not want to speak of it because it had been a slow process. A realisation that this was what they needed, what they wanted. To come alive again in a way that didn’t feel like breaking the law. 

And yet there was happiness and contentment since they left the isle, before Debbie’s message. They had slid, effortlessly, into this comfortable shoe but, perhaps, not understood there was still some of the wayward wolf in both of them clawing to get out.

And now it was a full moon and the cry of the fanged would be heard among the Glasgow underworld. Those who were guilty of the worst crime of all. Killing a child. But it had not come to that yet. Patsy could still be alive.

It made no sense to cause that kind of heat. Missing children made front page news and no organisation, big or small, wanted that. It meant more police officers sniffing around a business, increased surveillance, and a higher chance of prison time.

Children were only taken by trade to use as leverage. In only the rarest of cases, or with the most savage of individuals, were they destroyed and dumped. That was next level message stuff and not too many were capable of it.

Carter was a small time player but it was possible in the time Ken had been away that he’d moved up the ranks. And, if that was the case, it was possible Patsy’s disappearance was a play. Carter was bad news.

He had the sort of character that was both arrogant and stupid at the same time. He always gave Debbie the